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Ode to Dust (dedicated to all the bunnies out there)

October 28, 2010 By Aurore Labenheim 5 Comments

CAUTION!! Dust bunnies are toxic

(Mom, please, DO NOT read this. I know you won’t but don’t try to find a translator who would tell you all about my take on dust. It would give you the chills and deprive you of sleep for many weeks.)

Dust…for the first 18 or so years of my life, you were like a myth to me. I mean, I knew of you, read your name printed in books and magazines, heard about you on TV and the radio but rarely – if ever – saw you. Never got the chance. You were The Enemy in a house kept spotless thanks to a housewife solely dedicated to immaculate cleanliness. I mean –  a cleaning freak. Like, nuts. For real. Daily vacuuming, cleaning of the stove and the kitchen and, worse yet, scrubbing the bathtub after every single shower. Not a single drop of water allowed in the bathroom please.  That would be so out of place.

She was a (more than) willing slave, and we were dragged in with her.

Talk about hell (without brimstone powder or ashes, of course)

But after – Gosh! – 16 years out of the nest I know all about you, my friend. Mi casa è su casa. I am not exactly welcoming you with open arms but the result is quite the same: you are everywhere. What the hell was I thinking while buying dark furniture? That I would be rug in hand every five minutes? Ha! And, sneaky you, you love company and usually don’t come alone to the party: dirt, crumbs, hair, the occasional flowers petals, bits of cake and other scrubs….yeah….I know all of you guys.

But I am not ashamed.

I decided long ago that I lived in a house, not a museum. You and your friends are LIFE. Well, part of it.  Not the most glamorous one, for sure but still evidence that I open my windows, go outside, bake, eat, pet my cats and dog, breathe and enjoy. I don’t live in a dump though, and I will always frantically go in “Mom Freak Mode” during the few hours before my guests are supposed to arrive because I want the best for them (and also maybe for them to say that I am quite the house-keeper…um,um…) But I refuse to spend my nights and weekends mopping, sweeping, wiping up, down, across and in-between. Yes, it can be messy. Dirty even sometimes. But guess what? I deal with it. And I haven’t died of septicemia yet. I am a firm believer in germ exposure anyway. The cleaner, the weaker.

Right?

One thing for sure: as soon as I get a steady job, a grown-up one where I earn money every month, I will give some work to someone who needs it, and hire a cleaning lady. And worship her.

Filed Under: Misc

Not a fan of the knot?

October 12, 2010 By Aurore Labenheim 6 Comments

One of the (many) things that I will always have a hard time to understand is the fascination – unhealthy, sick, toc-sick even – of American women with the concept of ‘wedding’. Not marriage. WEDDING. As if the iconic ‘after’ of the fairy tales – remember the ‘and they lived happily ever after’? – didn’t count at all. Irrelevant. Might as well just evacuate the whole thing in a line, a Technicolor (fading) sunset and forget about it.

***Actually, speaking of happiness, Cinderella and her friends… ever thought of the influence of religion on fairy tales? Well, I did for you. So while the English versions are all proper and respectable, and conclude in a most puritan “They got married and lived happily after after”, the French underline quite a different outcome: “They got married and had lots of children”. As the song goes, every sperm is (indeed) sacred. And the regal one certainly is.***

I always thought that I would never get married. I never dreamed of my dress, never planned (over and over) the day in my head, never picked up (and dropped) bridesmaids. Not. Interested. Even as a little girl I remember looking at the wedding gowns and thinking what a pain they must be to put on. Then my parents divorced, and I was more sure than ever that I would never, ever go through this ordeal.

My first serious relationship lasted 7 years. The word ‘marriage’ probably never crossed our lips. We made endless fun of the few weddings we had to attend as a couple, giggling at the church, being respectfully disrespectful. We swore every time afterward, inebriated by too much champagne and toasts, that we would never make such fools of ourselves.

Especially since France had in the meantime legalized civil union for all couples. Gay, straight, romantically involved or not, people and their ‘partners’ can get (almost) the same privileges as married people. (Yes, I know – quite amazing) So why bother?

Most of my friends didn’t.

I knew coming here that things were a little different, but I was not quite prepared for what I found. Diamond ring competitions? Designer gowns? Favors? Ushers? Rehearsal dinners? Have I heard that one right?

It was just another league all together.

A scary one.

On a bright Friday of August my American boyfriend proposed to me. It was all nice and lovely, romantic and all, but damn, I was going to be one of those. I had to rethink all my wedding assessments, and do it fast. Because it was happening. TO ME! I was lost. Didn’t know what to do. What I wanted to do. I decided pretty quickly that I wouldn’t agonize over it for months and picked up a date 4 months later. Sent an SOS email to my friends. And we got to work.

And, to my surprise, I had fun. Lots of fun. Prepping was exciting! Choosing the venues, the menu, the invitations…deciding on the favors (home-made jam), the room decoration, the flowers of my bouquet. Creating my own bracelet. Being with my friends, and sharing it all with them. Keeping things simple, heart-felt and meaningful.

But yet elegant, classy and beaaaaaaauuuuu-tiful.

The worse moment? Going gown shopping. I even have pictures to prove it. Thank you, BFF for immortalizing that glorious moment. I wish I could say that I will get even with you on this but chances are rather slim. Because as a fellow Frenchie, I know you know better. You won’t get caught. And if you do – well, I will be there to try to make things go as smooth as possible.

But seriously?!?! Don’t ask me to be your maid of honor – I wouldn’t wear the dress. Or to time the ushers – I would make a mess. Or even to sit through a rehearsal dinner – unless you want me to give you the most embarrassing toast in the history of toasts.

Because I may be married now, I still don’t like weddings.

Especially American.

Apologies to all the Bridezillas (and others) out there…

Real life picture. Me, stuck in the fitting-room of the WORST store ever. Marylee Bridals. Sounds bad?!? Looks and smells even worse. BTW – this is NOT the dress I chose.

Filed Under: Nostalgia

Thou Shall Not Lie

September 29, 2010 By Aurore Labenheim 5 Comments

Make it the 11th commandment.

I actually cannot believe that Moses missed that one. I mean – what was he thinking about up in that mountain?!?!? That should be top priority, especially these days….maybe someone should just volunteer, rewrite and actualize the list, you know, like they did for the 7 Wonders of the World. Exit Mausoleum, Lighthouse and Hanging Gardens – hello Machu Picchu, Taj Mahal and Great Wall.
Note that the Coliseum, Rome has replaced the Colossus, Rhodes.

Sometimes everything remains (almost) the same.

(No comment on the absence of France in both lists. The fact that the country was populated by bearded barbarians eating boar and climbing up trees to collect mistletoe is totally irrelevant for the first one, and as for the second, ‘modern’ one…well…as I said: no comment. Thanks.)

So yeah – the humanity actually felt the urge to redefine a top-list of architectural wonders, spent years thinking about it, set up a huge contest, even chose a highly symbolic date to reveal the lucky winners – 7/7/07 which was also, by the way, the wedding day of Eva Longoria and Tony Parker, and that says a lot. That’s all nice and well, noble and absolutely pointless. Way to go guys.

So what about reconsidering the ten principles according to which we are all supposed to live our lives?!?!? What do you mean nobody cares anyway? Well I don’t either! It’s just a matter of precision. And we need to keep things straight, God dammit.
Because, seriously, nowadays who:
- make for oneself an idol? (OK…may-be. American, dancing or otherwise, they are still around. Hollywood, thou wretched city abandoned of God, new Babylon – I am looking at you and my wrath will be terrible)
- keep the Sabbath holy?
- knows the difference between committing adultery (#7) and coveting one’s neighbor’s wife? Ah-ah, I tricked you with that one, didn’t I?!?!?

I would personally vouch for a few updates along the lines of “You will not clandestinely install a freaking virus on my computer”, “You will not make me believe in BS miracle diets”, “You will not force me to watch any reality TV on Bravo” and “You will not earn millions to be a jerk on TV, especially if New Jersey is involved”.

But the lying thing should be at the top of the list. Because whoever you are, wherever you live, whatever you do – you are exposed to lie.I mean – I am. And also – I do. Lie.

I guess that at this point, I would be supposed to give examples. Personal and shameful, to illustrate my point and make this posting worth reading. Learning by edification and so on. The only problem is – I am not a good Christian and I don’t see my blog as a confessional. So instead of incriminating myself and strike the dreadful chord of mea culpa, mea culpissima I am going to expose the lie of someone else. Less repentant.Far less charitable.But oh so more fun!

This story involves a lady in black in a bakery.
She was not my sugar mama; still I was meant to be sugar coated. Evolve in a world of macaroons, croissants, cookies and fruit tarts. Swirl in front and behind the counter, type on the cash register, take commands, make the schedules, scold and praise the employees and most of all – launch a marketing campaign to put the store on the map. Website, Twitter, Facebook, Foursquare were my chosen musketeers. My head was swarming with ideas.

And in early April, after months of anticipation, discussion, planning and impatient awaiting – came the lie. Not even a nice, assertive one. Nothing about it was sharp; dull words, weak arguments, elusive look. Cowardice at its best. Despite flourishing promises and hours of cajoling, I was given the ultimate low act: denial. In the final hour I didn’t get the job – which is tough but acceptable. But I was told that I had never even been considered for one – and that, that – is despicable.

So I didn’t say anything. I didn’t try to argue. I didn’t fight it. Didn’t say a thing. I let her talk, stumble on her words and repeat the same sentence; she was trying to convince herself more than me. It was almost painful to watch. I took the high road. Because you have to choose your battles, and that one was definitely not worth it. My opponent was already defeated.

I moved on.
To the next lie, hoping it will be mine.

You can read more from Aurore Labenheim on her personal blog here.

Filed Under: Humor Tagged With: , , , ,

No pain, no gain

September 22, 2010 By Aurore Labenheim 5 Comments

I already wrote about my coming to running and how I learned to enjoy it, excitement and soreness alike.

Last week I ran my first half-marathon. It was exhilarating. And painful. Much more than anticipated. I had gone through my summer training without noticeable trouble and was not prepared to have my lower back killing me giving in the way it did on race day. It started almost right away, mile 2. I was 3 minutes under my 11:27/mile pace, my breathing was right, the weather was perfect and then I felt it: a dull ache in my loins. I tried to change my form, straightened up, arched my back – to no avail. I knew then that the 13 miles were going to be even longer than they already were.

But despite the pain, the fatigue and the gradual disappointment that settled in when I found out that I wouldn’t meet my goal time I enjoyed every single minute of it. OK, most of it…and now that my body has recovered I am looking forward to the next challenge.
Running is freaking addictive.

Last Sunday will forever remain in my memory as one of the very special days of my life. For many reasons.

Accomplishing a goal that you had fixed for yourself months in advance is in itself very satisfying. And I have to say that besides the mundanities of everyday life I hadn’t achieved anything in quite a while. Quitting school a few months ago was liberating in many ways but irremediably deprived me from this sense of accomplishment that is so essential to one’s life. Dedicating to this program 6 years of my life to the detriment of my physical health, sanity and self-esteem to get nothing concrete out of it wasn’t particularly pleasant. It was – and some naughty days, still is – painful. Maddening. Frustrating. Despite encouraging comments of: “You made the right decision”. Other people’s decisions are always much easier to validate, aren’t they?

So crossing the finish line – ironically enough, just a couple of blocks away from campus – after months of hard dedication gave me an incredible rush of happiness. I raised my arms, yelled “I Did it!!” and would have been ready to hug the first random person to cross my path. Fortunately for both of us my husband was just behind me; we kissed, exhausted but elated.

I was not alone in my journey. Fellow runners supported me all along; we shared training stories, exchanged tips and routes, suffered through the summer heat. And on Sunday I had 20,000 companions (and my hubby) to carry me along the way. I never thought that I would enjoy running among other people, total strangers, the way I did. But for a couple of hours we were all mates. Breathing, sweating, and pounding the asphalt of Lake Shore Drive in unison. All embarked on that same adventure for different reasons and with different expectations, but all of us united by the same objective: cross the line.

When I stepped on the red line I had tears of joy in my eyes. I felt overwhelmed. Exhaustion, pride, happiness, disappointment and a little sadness to not have anyone there with us to share this special moment in our lives. I watched with envy other runners being greeted by family and loving friends. They were hugged and congratulated. Acknowledged. Some even had flowers.

We rested for a while on the grass of Jackson Park, stretching, smiling, taking a few pictures, still in awe of our accomplishment. Then we got up to walk back to the car parked on campus. People started to send us congratulation messages on our phones. I kept smiling.

We celebrated with brunch in Wicker Park, and a festive dinner at one of the most wanted restaurants in town. A lot of pork was involved. Pints of beer as well.

When I went to bed that night my legs were not even sore anymore.

I am hungry for more. I heard that runners are kinda crazy like that. I prefer saying: motivated.

Filed Under: Motivate Tagged With: , ,

Don’t fool yourself. Size does matter.

September 18, 2010 By Aurore Labenheim 6 Comments

Last week Reuben and I went for a little getaway in Door County. We badly needed it; our summer had been pretty awful. As well as our spring. And winter. Oh well. It happens. I am placing all my bets on 2011 to be the year of permanent, never-ending and glorious bliss. Blindingly bright.
I already have my sunglasses on.

Anyway – we made reservations in smaller hotels. Nothing fancy this time, just a bed and a shower, you know. Wooden cabins, outdated picture frames, quilts and lacy window treatments. Country-style. Cheesy much? Oh yeah!

Everything was good and well until we settled down for the night after a long day of riding in:

  • the car for close to 6 hours
  • a smelly ferry on a very choppy Lake Michigan
  • a couple of ancient bikes we used to tour the island (Washington) we were on. We rode in the wind and rain, that’s what counts.

The bed was squeaky, very bouncy (powerful springs, lemme tell you!!) but also……………very small. Full-sized small. Bummer.

So now for most of the world a full-sized bed is NOT small. It is just perfectly normal. And in any case, a big upgrade from one’s twin from childhood. I happily shared one of these for years without questioning, feeling squeezed, uncomfortable or claustrophobic. I never fell off of the boat either. Even by ‘rocky’ waters (insert stupid grin here).

But everything went awry 4 years ago when Reuben decided that he was tired to deal with dwarf-size furniture and pulled an American move on me. He bought a KING size bed. Oh boy. Oh man. Oh God. That was the end of the world as I knew it. At least it was not Californian.

The thing is just huge. HUGE. Ever heard of ménage à trois? I am sure this bed was created for that particular naughty purpose. I jokingly say  to all my friends who are considering taking the ultimate step that going from queen to king is just asking for divorce. Seriously – how do you keep the intimacy alive when there is an ocean of pillows, cotton sheets or – way worse – fleece sheets (ahhhhhhhhhhh!!) between the two of you?!? Add to the equation a cat or two, a demanding dog and a wife who likes to sleep at the edge of the bed,  and there you have it: a marriage in peril.

Just kidding kids. Or am I?

At first I was not a big fan. I was cold, felt lonely and abandoned by my bed partner. I missed feeling his hairy legs on mine, his respiration on my neck and his vicious kicks in the middle of the night. But I quickly realized that it was indeed……nice. Incredibly so. I could almost sleep in a diagonal without bothering anyone. Sweee-eeet!

Our Ikea bed is not the best nor the most comfortable in the world but I grew really fond of it. It takes most of the room in a little chambre but what the hell?!? This is, after all, a BED-room. Right? The only thing that still bothers me a lot about my XL-size bed, American fashion: the price tag of the bedding. But every luxury has its price.

So that night we laid down, turned off the lights and closed our eyes. Trying to get away from each other. Bodies way too close. He got up – on my sleepy suggestion – in the middle of the night to go on the sofa. That says it all.

I hope we’ll never have to move back to Europe. We’ll be screwed. In the worst sense of the word.

Please visit Aurore Labenheim’s personal site here

Filed Under: Humor

Parlez-vous le…..social media?

September 16, 2010 By Aurore Labenheim Leave a Comment

I grew up without a computer. I was not even thinking about it. Computers were for all the geeks of my prep high school who were wasting their lives playing “Lemmings” (remember those little guys who were shaking from left to right and yelling “Oh no!!” just before exploding. So much fun. Right?) and so on.

Not for me.

My parents didn’t have a lot of money while growing up but that was not even a financial matter. Most of my friends didn’t have any PC. Let alone Macs. We were too busy falling in love with rock stars, daydreaming and talking about boys. And you know what? We were just fiiiiiiiiiiine.

I got my first ‘machine’ at home in 1999. I was 23 and a few months, and desperately needed one. I was a graduate student, writing her master’s thesis. And I was not going to do it by hand.

Along with Word I discovered the virtual world and its innumerable connections to the real one. It, literally, changed my life.

On March 3rd, 2001 I applied to a bunch of doctoral programs in the United States. I wanted a change. Needed one. A big, deep, transforming one.
And it came. Through the Internet.

Now typing is a second nature. No need to look at the keyboard. My fingers have their own eyes. Emailing? Sure. Add to that updating statuses on FB, loading up pictures, chatting, twittering, Yelping, blogging, advertising, posting, again and again. Adding @, # and https every other word.

Without. One. Hour. Of. Respite.

The only thing I keep refusing is Skype. Gives me the chills, in a bad way. I am doing way too many things while I am on the phone, and I am not ready for anyone to see them. Particularly not my mom. She would immediately notice my pimples, my roots, and my weight gain. Some things should really remain archaic.

How did I get there? Seriously?  Could I possibly be one of these women – 49% of them – who would rather give up sex than their online surfing which, according to them, doesn’t require any ‘special warm-up, treat and/or effort’?!? Hmm…

I am not the only culprit. I am sure that all of my friends are in the other 51% (right?!) but still, sometimes I cannot help but wonder what happened to us. For God sake, I didn’t even a cell phone in France!! My addiction coincides for me with my arrival to the US. It is therefore hard for me to make a distinction between the two. Being away from home led me to find home on the screen, and everything followed. Snowball effect. It all made sense.

And at the time I was still social-media free.

I am sure that things are exactly the same in France. In fact, I know they are (yes, we do have computers, and they work, too. We even have high speed and wi-fi, which some of my students couldn’t believe even last year). My baby brother (of 23) in on FB, and actively so. A few days after the launching of Yelp France I received a compliment on my account from a brand new ‘Yelper’ based out of Metz (my hometown) who was telling me that he didn’t know how well Yelp would do since there were already so many similar reviewing sites…Really?!?

I am much further behind than I thought. I felt down right stupid for asking him what he thought about it. He knew already all about it, and much more.

Not having been back home in almost 4 years I feel a bit out of touch with the everyday reality. But I am learning step by step to get back into the virtual one. One megabyte at the time.

But I love social media with a passion. They helped me find love (thanks Yahoo Personals!), friends, jobs and a ton of other opportunities. They also steal some of my freedom and impose the irritant ramblings of people I would rather strangle. But these are the rules of the game. I cannot change them.

And I play the game. The best I possibly can. For better or worse.

Filed Under: Tech Tagged With: , ,

French Women Don’t Get Fat? Hmmm…

September 6, 2010 By Aurore Labenheim 5 Comments

Even though I cringe every time I walk into a Borders and see the long-legged, scarved fashionista being dragged by her caniche (poodle en français) on the cover of the book, I have always been curious about it. And yet, for some reason – never even laid my hands on it.

Because it’s a lie.

A patent one.
Yes, Mireille Guiliano  I claim it high and loud: you are simply NOT telling the truth.

As I am writing this I actually opened another window with the culprit’s website. She is thin (duh!), sports a sophisticate bob haircut and is obviously loaded. Former CEO of Clicquot (champagne anyone?) she is married to the president of the New York Institute of Technology. Not exactly the girl next door. She pretends none-the-less that she can help any woman out there. Already sounds terribly flawed as a line of argumentation.

I click on “Read an excerpt”. It’s the book introduction. The two-page spiel that is supposed to get you hooked. Let’s see.

Mimi begins by talking about the infamous ‘French paradox’ (one eats like a pig and remains the size of a chick) and goes on by talking about her fabulous life and how she, the poor little thing, was ‘required to eat in restaurants about three hundred times a year’ for twenty years, ‘always a glass of wine or Champagne at [her] side’. Tough life indeed; we can totally relate, right?. But then she says something that attracts my attention; she mentions that she ‘suffered a catastrophe that [she] was totally unprepared for: a twenty pound catastrophe’.OK, so now you are talking….

And, sure enough, the end of the world happened when she was an exchange student in the US.
Here we are.

My personal ‘catastrophe’ is of epic proportion: in the 9 years I lived over here I gained something close to 40 pounds. Typing this number feels like a surreal experience; even with the size 2 pants deeply buried in my closet I cannot imagine that I used to be so much lighter. I do feel a bit uncomfortable in my skin but do not consider myself overweight. I believe I have a womanly figure, rather on the plump side, sure, but you know, nothing out of hand.
The scary thing is – at 118 pounds I still thought the same.
That would be MY French paradox.

Thinking back on it I really cannot believe it. It’s even hard for me to remember how I looked like back then. I was another person? Every so often I come across a picture, a former dress or bra and then I grasp the extent of my ‘transformation’. But – weirdly enough – never when I look in the mirror.

Why?

I thought about it many times, because it’s what women do. I wondered what it was about my gain weight that made it so easy to live with. And honestly – it’s a difficult question. As a French woman in France I always ate a lot. I was known for my appetite, and was never one to quibble with my food. And I never exercised. EVER. And yet I apparently had this model figure that I never appreciated.

Sucks, huh?
When I first came to the US I was still feeling awkwardly self-conscious of my shape(s). But I quickly found out that others found it attractive. I had never been so courted in my life. I slowly started feeling good about myself, and show more of my body. It became a source of pride and pleasure. I associate my first year in Connecticut with my birth as a true woman.

It felt exhilarating.
But it didn’t last that long. After two years in Chicago, and meeting my husband, I started piling on the pounds. And didn’t stop. My mom told me that I was getting fat. She was shocked. And so was I.
I still eat a lot. But I am trying to compensate my love for food by going to the gym on a very regular basis. I work hard, not at all like a proper French lady who is supposed to magically keep her figure, ‘without a sweat’.

But I cannot keep the damn pounds away.
So is it the aging, the bad influence of my American companion, the lack of hormonal balance, the products of a wicked food industry that adds corn syrup to everything, the effect of climate change or too many years of Bush administration? I am not sure, and it doesn’t really matter. Today I am wearing a flirty summer dress, high heels and sexy underwear, and I feel good about myself.

Probably the most important feeling in the world.

Filed Under: Entertainment, Opinion Tagged With: , , ,

An enigma: American dating

September 2, 2010 By Aurore Labenheim 2 Comments

You are a foreigner.
You come to the US for the first time.
You are single.

So far, so good.

You are excited to land on the Promise Land because frankly who doesn’t want to add a nice Yankee – tall, tanned, lean, muscular, baseball obsessed and hormone-fed – to its list of conquests?!?

Note 1: the list of adjectives works for both sexes. This posting is very theoretical and therefore has to stay as general as possible for scientific purposes.
Note 2: ‘list of conquests’ would totally work in French as well but I would have more likely used  tableau de chasse, hunting board – as if you were collecting your lovers heads as trophies. Like a Black Widow, if you will. Or a mad scientist. A serial dater? Kinda scary stuff, right?
Note 3: please don’t be offended by the use of ‘Yankee’ – it’s meant in a endearing way. ‘Cause I love y’all. I really do.

So once you have recovered from jet-lag, refreshed your pick up skills (and vocab), flossed (a MUST in the US but not really everywhere else, please don’t be grossed out and give us a chance anyway) and sharpened your best weapon (see the soundness of the ‘hunting board’ idea?!?) aka your accent, you go out.

If you are lucky it doesn’t take you toooooooooooooooooo long to meet someone nice, talk, maybe kiss at the end of the night and BAM!!!!!!!

You just entered the dating game.

But you have no clue about it.  Because ‘dating’ as a concept doesn’t exist in your country. It sure doesn’t exist in France. We don’t even have a word for it, much less rules. Dammit.

What are you supposed to do? Just cry loudly and curse Cupid for screwing everything up? Well – if you watched enough movies and/or sitcoms all is not lost to you. You can rack your memory and think about what your favorite character did in the said situation. Or ask around. But don’t expect to be pleased by the responses you’ll get.

As far as I know things in French work in two different ways (at least they did 10 years ago):

  • You just want to get laid, go to a bar/club/_______ and are pretty blatant about it.
  • You are looking for love, romance, sparkles, butterflies and all that, and it might be a little more difficult and time-consuming to get the message across but – still – not impossible.

Of course since you have to start somewhere, you usually go on a first date. A rendez-vous. And of course things are not that different from what a first date in Chicago would be. You laugh, you talk, you try to seduce, you flutter your eyes and touch your hair, maybe brush a foot against a leg.

But usually – and again things might have changed since my old days – you don’t have to worry about the “Are we exclusive?” bit. I mean – what the heck is that?!?!?  Isn’t it difficult enough already? finding someone interested in you, willing to take you out more than a couple times without getting upset if the big ta-da isn’t happening right away – now you have to wonder if you are the only one in the game?!?!?  Is it some sort of fool-proof warranty?  Do you need to go on a test drive before choosing which car you want to ride?

Flash news: it’s ok to dump someone after a couple of days, weeks or months if you don’t like it. Really, it is. You don’t have to keep ‘one’ handy, just in case. It’s just……….wrong.

Come on, dudes!

And what about the ‘label’?!? Why is it so wrong to call him or her your boyfriend/girlfriend? I cannot think of more non-committal than that…except maybe ‘the one I am currently going out with, laughing with, having dinner and stormy sex with but which I just started seeing a week/month ago so we are not engaged yet’. Relax. Save your breath and stay awake from the headache. Boyfriend/girlfriend is just FINE.

But I guess I am either too foreign or too stoopid (and too married) to play the game anyway. Good luck to all the others and let me know if you figure things out. I am all ears.

Filed Under: Uncategorized

Let us forget restaurants, just for one night…

August 28, 2010 By Aurore Labenheim 2 Comments

“Dinner for Schmucks” is apparently the hit comedy this summer.
Surprised?!?
I am.

And a little bit angry.
I just don’t like remakes.
Especially when the original version is just fine, thank-you-very-much, I mean, merci beaucoup.

I didn’t think that Le diner de cons could have made it onto the American big screen. It is an essential French comedy, heavily based on dialogue and play on words, defined by a confined, huis clos like atmosphere much closer to filmed theater than real cinema. Très français.

In Le diner de cons the main event actually never happens. Watch the movie if you want to know why. I promise it is worth it, and yes, you can handle the subtitles. But still – dinner is at the center of things.

And this is what is interesting to me.

Dinner.

More specifically, dinner parties.

They are an endangered species. Dinner as a social activity is almost exclusively taken out, involves restaurant reservations, expensive drinks beforehand, the very limited intimacy of a public dining room, tax, tips and taxi fare.

Why?!?!?

I hosted my last real dinner – the one that involves hours of thinking, browsing, prepping, cooking and a serious dosage of stressing out, cuts and minor burns – last April for a few friends. Cheese soufflé, canard à l’orange with a twist and a velvety red wine sauce, gratin dauphinois, bundles of haricots verts and an Apple tarte tatin. French and elegant.

I had a blast, and everybody chimed in to say that we should definitely do this more often.

Meaning it, I believe.

I don’t know if the general disaffection for hosting dinner parties is an American phenomenon, or if it is a sign of our modern society obsessed with efficiency, time management and immediate satisfaction. In my early twenties, while I was still living in France I would go to friends’ houses on a regular basis for long nights of food, drinks, laughter, games and endless conversations. We were all broke, so we were not going out; restaurants were reserved for special occasions and were usually family affairs. Anyway – the world was ours. We would leave, exhausted and slightly inebriated in the wee morning hours. Sometimes even had breakfast together. I cherish these long-gone moments and fondly remember them as the best times of my life.

So allow me to be a little old-fashioned here. I truly think that we, as a society, could really do with a little more warmth, conviviality and generosity in our lives.

Let’s face it: we all need it.

These last ten years were filled with dinners as well, but of a total different kind. Potlucks and barbeques replaced the elaborate home-cooked meals I was previously used to. You still get together, have fun and a good time but in that new scenario, every single guest get involved in the process. The host is – literally – just hosting and therefore not slaving in the kitchen for hours. Quick, cheap, simple and efficient. In a word – modern.

This is all good and well. However there are few things I love more in life than getting everything ready for my guests. I get up early, make a mental list of the things that need to be done, and get busy. Chopping vegetables, rolling pastry dough, searing meat, reducing sauces and whisking vinaigrettes, whipping, baking, sautéing, tasting. A feast for the senses. The house comes alive.Your pets are begging for scraps and your partner digs his finger in the chocolate coulis, just to make sure. The music is on, you are singing along while checking the clock. The counter top is a mess, just like your face smudged with flour, fruit juice and pearls of sweat. You don’t even have to put on your best Julia Child’s apron and shoot for something fancy. Just make something yourself with your own hands. A lasagna. Your family ragout. Get involved. Be creative. Have fun. Forget just for once to ask your friends to bring dessert. Buy your wine. Leave the barbeque for next week and get behind the stove. Set up a nice table with napkins, a table centerpiece and a bouquet of fresh flowers.

Just give some lovin’.

It is so incredibly rewarding.

Filed Under: Entertainment, Nostalgia, Uncategorized

From Turtle to Hare: Story of a Race

August 25, 2010 By Aurore Labenheim 7 Comments

Once upon a time I was a turtle – well, THE turtle of the story – and didn’t have any problem with it.
And why should I have?!? They may not be very stylish, sure (and that it is a major sin, I am French after all) but they are endangered, people love them, they make cute plush toys and delicious soups.
That you shouldn’t eat. They are endangered, remember?

Except that now I am species-confused.

See, I started running.
And to my (almost) shame, I really like it.

Now you have to know that people – normal, sane, clear-minded people – don’t run in France. Mayyyybe once a year to catch a bus. But really – if you are a gal – you are not very likely to sprint. Like, EVER. Running shoes?!? Whaaaaaa? We feel the deepest sympathy (embedded in many layers of stunned disbelief) for these NYC wonder women who half-jog from home to the subway to work to unsuccessful first dates in their tennis shoes.
Ze poor little zings.

Because we, French women, don’t get fat. Right?
So the benefits of running don’t really occur to us. To take care of our hearts we have red wine, thankyouverymuch. A glass a day keep the doctor and the sneakers away. Besides we have more lovely ways to pamper our feet – ask all the Carrie Bradshaws; high heels and red soles?!? Yeah…

I painfully remember the 3 most excruciating hours of the week back in school. Physical education – it was (so elegantly) called. My own special peeve: athleticism. Or rather: Dragging along, trailing behind, huffing and puffing. I am grateful that there is no video footage of these days – I would probably die on the spot out of embarrassment.
The worst of the worst? 20 minute-run on a track.
A. Nighmare.

I am laughing by myself as I am typing this. Last week I completed a 8 mile run in 1 hour and 20 something minutes. Not a great time, but geeze!!! 1 hour longer than my teenage-years ordeal. 60 long minutes. 3600 seconds.
What happened to me?

Frankly, I am not quite sure. Even when I started working out here in the US (because it’s what you have to do in order to : 1. be cool; 2. fit in your jeans) running was at the bottom of my list. I was making up excuses in order to avoid the treadmill. “It hurts my shins”, “I can’t run since I had strep” – which was partially true. After a bad case of strep and a treatment left unfinished I had developed painful nodules on my legs and almost died of heart failure. I know.

Dramatic pause.

I started training a little more than a year ago. Shyly first. Really not sure of what I was doing. Sounds simple enough, you put one leg in front of the other and you try to walk fast. Really fast. Right? I learned, on the belt, the asphalt, the dirt. I read on the screen and magazines.  I signed up for my first race. 5K with a finish in Wringley Field, the heart of hearts of Chicago. Followed by another one to celebrate Bastille Day. Plans were made for a half-marathon.
I swore though that I would NEVER do a full one. Too demanding.
Damn, I am still French at heart!!!

But a year later I am still running, and enjoying it more than ever. It’s only a beautiful physical challenge – and for me, it’s the best therapy out there. I run and I forget. I get winded and I unwind. I pile up the miles and I get rid of my burdens.
That’s the real treasure, and what keeps me running.

Next stop: September 12. Chicago half-marathon. And a less than 2h30min objective.
I just do it.

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